I looked down. Dark, fingerprint-shaped marks mottled my thighs where Aleksey’s rough hands had gripped me.
Pressing my thumb against the darkest bruise sent a sharp ache radiating outward, dragging me right back to the hidden aisle of the bus. Aleksey hadn’t bothered to be careful, taking what he wanted right in front of half the team. The sheer, casual possession of it should have repulsed me.
I cranked the shower handle all the way to hot, letting the rush of water drown out the muffled sound of Clay still talking through the bathroom door. Stepping under the scalding spray, I worked a bar of cheap hotel soap over my skin. I scrubbed methodically, trying to wash off the sticky evidence and reclaim some basic level of baseline sanity.
But my hands eventually stopped moving. I stood there letting the water beat down on the back of my neck, catching myself staring at the locked bathroom door.
A ridiculous, vivid image pushed into my head: Aleksey shoving past Clay in the hotel room, forcing this door open, and pinning me against the wet tile to finish what he started. I closed my eyes, my jaw clenching tight.
I wanted it. However, obviously, the door stayed shut.
I turned the water off, dried my hair with a scratchy white towel, and pulled on my team-issued gear with stiff movements.
Late that afternoon, the team bussed over to the arena for our pre-game walkthrough. The locker room was mostly quiet while I laced up my custom skates, guys already dialing into their individual pre-game rituals.
I kept my head down and went through the motions, but my actual focus was off the ice. I was just waiting for the chance to track down the guy who’d shredded my composure back on the bus.
The rubber matting in the tunnel gave way to fresh ice. Cold air hit my face, metallic with Zamboni exhaust. Finding number forty-four in the scatter of maroon jerseys took no effort. I’d gotten good at tracking Aleksey’s location the way you’d track a storm system on the periphery.
He was already running drills, skating past the blue line with that efficient, economical stride, the long reach of his stick eating up the ice. Perez skated up beside him and said something. Aleksey tapped his stick on the ice, smirking. Not a single glance slid my way. The dark bus aisle might never have happened, for all the attention he gave it.
A tight, hollow feeling gnawed at me, but I buried it immediately. Shifting my weight forward, I leaned my forearms across the top of my stick, letting my posture project nothing but indifference.
If he was going to pretend I didn’t exist, then I could play the exact same game.
The sharp cracks of hockey sticks slapping the ice filled the quiet in my head, right up until a hand clapped my shoulder.
Elliot glided to a stop beside me, catching my arm to steer me toward the boards and away from the main warm-up drill.
“Hey. You with us?”
“Yeah. Still waking up.”
Elliot leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Look, I warned you about Zotov yesterday, and Trenton just told me he sat next to you on the bus. Was he trying to start something? Get inside your head?”
I worried my bottom lip with my teeth, fighting a very sudden, dark urge to laugh.
Aleksey had absolutely gotten inside my head. He was living there at this point. His methods just involved a lot less trash talk and alotmore jerking off than my brother was picturing.
I met Elliot’s gaze and lied with effortless, unhurried ease. “No. He just needed a seat. The front was full.”
“Don’t let him push you around.” Elliot crossed his arms, his posture shifting into a familiar, coach-like stance as he glared across the ice at Aleksey. “There are scouts in the stands tonight.”
“He’s not messing with me. Leave it alone, El.”
“Dad’s tracking the stats online, Karter.” Elliot tapped his stick against the ice. “So we need to be dialed in. No stupid mistakes.”
Staring at a black scuff on the rubber floor, I nodded. “I know.”
“Ignore him. He’s an asshole trying to drag you down.”
“I can handle Aleksey. He leaves me alone.”
Elliot sighed, clapping my shoulder again. “Alright. I was just checking in.”
I pushed off the boards, leaving Elliot behind, and carved a sharp, fast curve into the ice. Game time. If Aleksey was going to play the unbothered, disinterested senior, my only objective was to skate hard enough to make it impossible for him to look away.
By the time the puck dropped for the first round of the tournament later that night, the arena was a different beast. The harsh arena lights flared, and the steady, deafening roar of the local crowd vibrated right through the plexiglass.
